


A Guide to Rose Growing

by Northumbrian



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adult Hermione Granger, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Ministry of Magic, Post-Hogwarts, Pregnancy, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-03-16 18:34:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13642104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Northumbrian/pseuds/Northumbrian
Summary: A series of linked one-shots about Ron and Hermione.





	1. Conceptions

**Conceptions**

Ron’s overall impression of the restaurant, _Aphrodite_ , could be summed up in one word, pink.

As he held the door for Hermione, he looked back into the place where they’d eaten. His glance confirmed the pinkness of the place. Every table had a pink tablecloth scattered with shiny red hearts; on each stood a single pink rose and a wax encrusted bottle with a flickering pink candle in its neck. At least the food had been good.

It wasn’t late, only a little after ten. The place was still full of happy couples and the low hum of intimate conversations. Many of the diners seemed to like the decor, but he wasn’t really a pink person; nor, thankfully, was Hermione.

The thing that annoyed Ron most was that the place had looked like a traditional Greek restaurant when he’d booked, three weeks earlier. It was supposed to be a surprise for Hermione. It was, but he’d been equally surprised by the transformation. She’d been amused by his alarmed expression, and bemused by the cloying romanticism of the place. It didn’t matter, they had laughed and joked throughout the meal. It had been a good night.

Despite her obvious delight at his surprise, Hermione had been on edge. Ron was certain that he knew why; she thought that he’d forgotten to buy her a present. She would soon find out that she was wrong. It was only a ten-minute walk back to the flat from the recently opened restaurant.

Although the food had been very good, Hermione thought that the “special” menu had been overpriced. Of course, almost every restaurant in the area was overpriced. The choice was simple, pay inflated restaurant prices, or eat at home.

By the time they left the restaurant, side by side, the rain had stopped. They walked down the rain-soaked street in silence, avoiding puddles, and heading toward the river. It was a cold evening and the sky was now cloudless. The chill wind blowing along the Thames had pushed the rain away, now it was flexing its frosty fingers, scuttling up the side streets in swirling gusts. There was every chance that, before much longer, the rain-slicked pavements would freeze.

When they turned onto Cheyne Walk the full force of the wind hit them like an icy hammer. Hermione slipped her arm around his waist; he reciprocated, gently squeezing. She tensed and shivered.

‘It’s going to be a cold night,’ observed Hermione as they reached the door.

‘Damn! I was hoping for a hot one,’ Ron told her as they stepped into the warm and bright foyer and began their ascent.

‘You never know your luck,’ said Hermione as they climbed the stairs. Her eyes were sparkling, but there seemed to be a shadow in them too. ‘Thank you for the meal, Ron. We’ll have to invite Harry and Ginny—and little James—to that restaurant soon.’

When they reached the flat he opened the door and stepped aside, allowing Hermione to enter first. Following her into the hallway, he helped her off with her coat and hung it on the hook.

‘Happy Valentine’s Day, Hermione,’ he said, picking up the dozen red roses he’d left behind the door. He grinned happily at her. She looked at the roses, and then into his face, and frowned. There were tears in her eyes.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked concernedly. They weren’t tears of joy. She was unhappy about something, and it obviously wasn’t the lack of flowers, so it was serious.

Hermione didn’t reply; he panicked. Had he done something wrong? It was definitely St Valentine’s Day, he wasn’t _that_ stupid; everything from the restaurant décor to the recent upsurge in love-potion sales at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes confirmed it. Nevertheless, that ridiculous worry hit him a glancing blow, knocking him off balance. He rapidly thought back through the events of the past few days. Hermione was upset. Why? He was fairly certain that he hadn’t done anything to annoy her, but she was worried about something. Ron threw his arms around her and pulled her into a tight embrace. Bending down, he kissed the top of her head.

‘What’s wrong, Hermione?’ he asked concernedly. ‘Is it me? Have I done something, or have I not done something? What is it?’

‘I’m sorry, Ron, I shouldn’t tell you, not yet, and I didn’t want to tell you, because I didn’t want to upset you, not tonight. But I can’t keep it secret from you until tomorrow,’ Hermione spoke into his chest, she didn’t look up. ‘You’ve lost, Draco Malfoy has beaten you; I’ve chosen him.’

‘You’ve what?’ Ron spluttered in disbelief. He fought down his anger and demanded, ‘Why?’

‘I had no choice, Ron, the tests have come back and they are positive,’ Hermione told him.

‘That’s impossible. How can they be? How in Merlin’s name did Malfoy manage it?’ asked Ron angrily.

‘That’s for you to find out, Ron; I can’t tell you, you know that I can’t,’ she said sorrowfully. ‘Please don’t ask me again.’

‘Okay,’ Ron sighed resignedly. ‘That’s typical bloody Malfoy – making you unhappy. He’s never forgiven you for smacking him. He deserved it ten years ago, and I reckon he deserves another smack now. Oily little git.’

Hermione smiled through her sorrow and looked up into his eyes. ‘Thanks for being so understanding, Ron, and thanks for the roses,’ she said. She pushed herself away from her husband and pulled him down for a kiss.

The simple act of confessing her concerns had calmed her. Taking his hand, she led him through into their lounge and found an empty vase. Hermione conjured water from her wand and carefully arranged the flowers. Ron flopped down on their sofa and watched her work. She didn’t spill a drop of water; her spellwork was as perfect as she was. He sighed contentedly. Life was good, except for Malfoy.

‘They really are beautiful, Ron, thank you,’ Hermione said.

‘Beautiful roses for my beautiful wife,’ said Ron. He tried to prevent himself from saying more, but he could not let it rest. Annoyance gnawed at his stomach. It fought its way from the very centre of his being and forced itself out into the world despite his attempts to stop it. The shadow over their romantic evening was the fault of one person. ‘Bloody Malfoy,’ he grumbled.

Hermione sighed and looked at him. He watched in silence as she considered her options. He forced himself to bite his tongue. He couldn’t push her. If he pushed, then she’d push back and they’d start shouting. And he couldn’t do that, not on Valentine’s Day. In an attempt to stay calm he recalled that long-ago day when his wife had thumped Draco. The smile on his face was one of pride in her. He waited. It was a good tactic; he saw her reach a decision and listened carefully as her words tumbled out.

‘I should not be telling you this, Ron. I shouldn’t have said anything at all. But … you _will_ find out tomorrow, anyway. Please don’t let anyone know that I told you _before_ you got the official letter of notification,’ she begged.

‘You know I’ll keep your secrets, Hermione,’ he assured her.

The words tumbled from her lips. ‘The Department for Magical Law Enforcement will be writing to Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. McKay, from the procurement section, will write the letter on my behalf. You and George will officially get the bad news owl tomorrow morning.’

Ron smiled consolingly at his still unhappy wife. ‘It’s okay, Hermione,’ he murmured. ‘I’m not mad at you.’

Hermione moved across to the fireplace and looked across the room at him. The flames flickered and danced behind her slim legs. She was wearing black tights and a red skirt and the glowing red coals behind her showed off the perfect silhouettes of her slender ankles. He found himself staring at her legs, but he forced himself to listen carefully.

‘You knew the rules when you submitted the tender, Ron,’ said Hermione softly. ‘The Department for Magical Law Enforcement’s Portkey Handcuff contract will be awarded to the lowest bidder, provided that the product, when tested, meets the specifications. And they do. As I said, the tests are positive.’

This wasn’t Hermione’s fault, Ron reminded himself. And it was St Valentine’s Day. He looked up from her ankles and into his wife’s moist brown eyes. He needed to wipe away those tears, so he stood and strolled towards her.

‘How?’ Ron asked curiously, his voice a soft and gentle caress. ‘We’ve kept the manufacturing process for the Weasley Portcuffs secret for five years, Hermione. Smith and Sons’ attempts to manufacture their own version were pathetic. They were a lot cheaper than us, but they submitted a product that didn’t actually work. Then this year, out of nowhere, Malfoy submits a tender for the first time, undercuts us, and steals the contract from under our nose with a product that passes your test. How in Merlin’s name did he do it?’

While he spoke Ron slid his hands around Hermione’s head, his palms on her cheeks and his long fingers around her ears. He moved his thumbs slowly and gently up the sides of her nose and ran them under her eyes, brushing out the tears. He bent forward, sucked the liquid from his thumbs, and kissed the corners of her eyes.

‘All better?’ he asked as he gently kissed her forehead. ‘Tell me what else is bothering you, Mrs Granger-Weasley. This is a private discussion between husband and wife. It has nothing to do with the Deputy Head of the Department for Magical Law Enforcement, or the Co-Chairman of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, because we both know that _they_ can’t discuss Ministry contracts.’

Hermione smiled.

‘I don’t know how he did it. I didn’t think it was possible, Ron. After all, Malfoy wasn’t particularly bright at school,’ she said. ‘I demanded retests, and I supervised them myself. I had to make the final decision on approving the purchase today. Malfoy’s handcuffs work as well as yours. There was no way I could throw out the lowest bid and accept one from my husband’s company, not unless there was a major problem with Malfoy’s tender, or his equipment.’

‘There _will_ be a major problem with Malfoy’s tender equipment the next time I see him. Because my foot will have connected with it,’ announced Ron, grinning. ‘If I kick him hard enough, maybe he’ll be the last of the Malfoys,’ he added hopefully.

‘You’re a terrible man, Ron Weasley,’ Hermione laughed, shaking her head. ‘The “CleverCuffs”, as Conjurers Contraptions Limited call their product, perform identically to the Weasley Portcuffs. They seem to be an exact copy.’

‘Conjurers Contraptions,’ Ron growled. ‘The git can’t use the Malfoy name, because no one would buy anything from him, so he hides behind something bland and meaningless. Do you think he’s stolen our design? How much did he undercut us by?’

‘You know I can’t tell you _that_ , Ron. Please don’t ask,’ said Hermione forcefully. Ron smiled happily. This was his Hermione, she was back, her worries were replaced by determination and her tears were at an end.

‘It was a sealed bid, like yours,’ she reminded him sternly. ‘You weren’t successful, that’s all I can tell you for now, and you know that I shouldn’t even have told you that! We knew that there would be conflicts of interest when I moved from Magical Creatures into Magical Law Enforcement. After all, you and George supply a lot of equipment to the Law Office and the Aurors.’

‘And now a known and convicted Death Eater is supplying equipment for Law Officers! What next? What will happen if he tries to supply the Auror Office with their hex-proof coats?’ Ron demanded.

‘I’m certain that Harry would have something to say about _that_. But even though he’s Head of the Auror Office, Harry would have to justify any decision not to buy from Malfoy to both the Minister and the Wizengamot. I spent an hour with the Head of D.M.L.E. this afternoon. Mr Brick isn’t happy about buying from Malfoy either. But there is nothing we can do about it, I’m sorry,’ she said.

‘Malfoy tried to win a few Ministry contracts from us last year too. He desperately wants to establish a foothold back in the Ministry,’ Ron mused. He looked into his wife’s anxious face. ‘Oh, bugger him; I’ll talk to George tomorrow. If Malfoy wants to take on Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, we’ll make a fight of it.’

‘Ron,’ Hermione began.

‘Sod him,’ Ron interrupted her. ‘Let’s forget it. It’s Valentine’s Day and I’ve taken my wife out to dinner, and I’ve bought her a dozen red roses. There’s only one thing left to do. Actually, there are two, I hope.’ He grinned. ‘But first…’

Ron walked back over to the sofa and reached behind it. He smiled as Hermione watched him, a puzzled expression on her face. He lifted his clenched fist, turned, and carefully lowered his fist toward the table. At a height of six inches or so above the table an invisible something landed with a soft thud.

‘What is that?’ said Hermione curiously.

‘The latest Weasley product,’ Ron announced as he led his wife to the sofa, sat her down and guided her hands towards the object.

‘It’s a hidden surprises bag,’ he told her, ‘It was my idea. It works on a similar principle to the headless hats. Hide your surprise presents in plain sight! Good, eh? Just find the drawstring, the bag will appear when you open it.’

Hermione did as she was asked. She pulled at the drawstring and a white bag, covered with hearts and roses appeared in front of her. Reaching inside she pulled out a large box of Honeydukes chocolates. Ron sat on the edge of the low table, facing his wife, and picked up the chocolates.

‘Have I already wished you Happy Valentine’s Day, Hermione?’ Ron asked as he opened the box and offered it to her.

‘Happy Valentine’s Day, Ron,’ she said. Helping herself to a chocolate, Hermione bit into it and slowly relaxed.

‘Thanks, her-mine, my girl,’ he said, grinning. ‘Let’s forget about little Teddy’s Uncle Dodo.’ He winked. ‘But I _will_ let you share your chocolates with me, because I bought you my favourites.’

Hermione laughed and moved the chocolates away from him, putting them on the edge of the sofa, out of his reach. He tried to reach past her and grab one, but she slapped her hands away.

‘You bought those for _me_ , Ron,’ Hermione reminded him. ‘If you’re not a good boy, you won’t see my present.’

‘You bought something for me?’ Ron asked. Hermione nodded.

‘Chocolates?’

Hermione shook her head. ‘You’ll never guess, Ron,’ she said confidently.

‘Wine?’ he suggested.

Hermione whined plaintively, while shaking her head again. Ron laughed.

‘We’re off the booze for a reason, remember. Less alcohol means more fecundity. One last guess, Ron, and then I’ll tell you,’ she teased.

‘A holiday? A weekend away for two?’ Ron asked hopefully.

Hermione shook her head again. ‘Clothes,’ she said. ‘Underwear.’

Ron struggled not to look disappointed. He obviously failed because Hermione laughed at him.

‘Seriously?’ Ron asked, astonished. His wife nodded.

She patted the sofa and Ron sat down beside her. She immediately stood up.

‘Would you like to see them?’ she asked.

‘I suppose so,’ Ron said. ‘Where are they?’ he looked around the room. Hermione leaned forwards and whispered in his ear.

‘I’m wearing them, Ron,’ she told him. ‘Now, feed me another one of my chocolates and I just might let you see your present.’

Ron hastily reached into the box, pulled out a chocolate at random, and held it up to her. She bent forwards and took it straight into her mouth, licking his fingers as he released it.

‘Mmm.’ Hermione gave a moan of pleasure.

‘Can I have a chocolate?’ Ron asked. ‘Per-ity per-lease?’

‘We can share,’ she mumbled.

Hermione hitched up her skirt, straddled her husband, put her arms around his neck and kissed him, pushing partly-melted chocolate into his mouth. They continued to kiss, passing the rapidly melting morsel back and forth between them.

‘Mmm…’ moaned Ron. His hands caressed her knees. He slid them slowly up her thighs until he reached stocking tops. She shuffled and lifted herself up a fraction, allowing him easier access. His hands continued to explore.

‘Mmm…’ she replied.

* * *

Hermione leaned back, resting against her husband’s chest. His bare flesh was warm against hers. Ron was leaning against the sofa, his legs were wide apart and she was sitting between them, using his bent knees as arm rests. He was surrounding and enveloping her, the way that he did. It was easy to be surrounded by Ron, he was lanky and long everywhere. His thighs squeezed her hips, his feet touched her stocking-clad calves, and his left arm was over her shoulder, his big, long-fingered hand warm and gentle on her belly. He was naked, she wasn’t, not quite.

Ginny had been right; buying sexy underwear had been a very good idea. It had been worth it for the look on Ron’s face. He’d gone from disappointment to arousal in an instant.

In front of her, the fire flickered. It had been an almost perfect evening, with only Malfoy casting a shadow over it. It would happen again, she knew. The Malfoys had been in hiding for years, but Draco was back, emerging blinking into the light. He was trying to re-establish the fortune, and the status, so dramatically lost by his father. But that was a worry for another day; there were much more important things to discuss.

‘According to my calculations, tonight is the night, Ron,’ she said quietly. ’Every ovulation predictor I’ve used confirms it; temperatures, dates, everything.’

‘I know that, Hermione, and all I do is count the days since the last time you told me,’ said Ron calmly, wrapping his arms around her. ‘There is such a thing as too much planning, you know. It will happen when it happens. I know that we didn’t succeed last year, but we’re both young and healthy. We just need to keep trying.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Hermione.

‘But … if you fall pregnant tonight, I’ve got the perfect name,’ Ron said with a smile.

‘I hardly dare ask,’ she murmured.

‘Valentine,’ said Ron. ‘We will _have_ to call him Valentine.’

‘ _Valentine_ Granger-Weasley?’ Hermione failed to keep the disapproval from her voice. ‘In that case, I hope that our firstborn is a girl … and before you suggest it, Ron … we’re not calling her Valentina.’

Ron looked at the vase on the table in front of them.

‘No, if it’s a girl, we’ll call her Rose,’ he said without hesitation. ‘She’ll be my little red Rose.’

‘Rose Granger-Weasley, I rather like that,’ Hermione told him. ‘Now, take me to bed.’

‘My pleasure,’ said Ron.

‘And mine,’ demanded Hermione.

* * *

‘I’ve got some news,’ said Ron excitedly as he walked into Hermione’s office. ‘It’s brilliant, absolutely brilliant! It’s the best birthday present I’ve ever had.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure; I’ve got some news, too, Ron,’ said Hermione, smiling.

‘Me first,’ Ron demanded. ‘I’ve got him this time. I’ve really got him!’ His grin was splitting his face from ear to ear and he had a wild gleam in his eye. Hermione realised that her husband wasn’t listening to her, and that he wasn’t in the mood to listen to her. She considered simply blurting out her news, but decided to wait.

‘Malfoy is going to hate me,’ said Ron gleefully. ‘Actually, he already hates me, so he’ll have to hate me more. Maybe he’ll despise me, is despiction worse than hatred?’ He ignored Hermione’s folded arms and rolling eyes and simply continued. ‘You told me, although I didn’t realise it at the time: “they seem to be an exact copy”, that’s what you said.’

Curiosity got the better of her. ‘What _are_ you talking about, Ron?’ she asked.

‘The Portcuffs. You said they were an exact copy. That bothered me, so I, er, persuaded Harry to borrow a pair of Malfoy’s “ConjureCuffs” for separate testing by the Auror Office.’

‘You did what? That’s wrong, and possibly a breach of the terms of the tender,’ Hermione scolded him. ‘Why didn’t you, or Harry, ask me first?’

‘Because, we knew you’d tell us not to do it.’ Ron admitted, grinning. ‘But that’s not the point. The point is that the cuffs you tested weren’t an exact copy of ours, they _were_ ours. Malfoy used a set of Weasley cuffs to win the tender; I can prove it. When we first started supplying the Auror Office, George and I agreed with Harry that we’d magically hide a serial number on the cuffs. Not many people know it’s there. We keep careful records. I can even tell you the name of the bloke who bought the cuffs from us, he was a German guy called Matthias Jung.’

‘But, that means Malfoy won’t be able to fulfil the contract,’ said Hermione worriedly. Ron grinned and shook his head.

‘He bought a dozen pairs from us, so George and I did some … er … investigation. Malfoy has had his people taking them apart to figure out how the activation spell works. I think that he was hoping to be able copy them, but the cuffs are based on an idea Fred and George had years ago, before Fred … before he was… anyway … Malfoy’s people aren’t as clever as the twins,’ said Ron staunchly.

Hermione wondered whether to interrupt her husband, because her news was more important. But Ron was in full flow, it would be better to wait until he finished.

‘I haven’t told you the best bit. We’ve just had Matthias Jung back in to see us today. He’s definitely Malfoy’s agent. He told us that he’s acting for the Bavarian Ministry, the Bundy-something-or-other and he claimed they want to buy the exact number of cuffs the Ministry want. He offered us a cash payment, at well below our tender price. George told him to get stuffed. He finally settled for two hundred Galleons more than our tender, he wasn’t happy, but he didn’t have a choice.’

‘It’s brilliant,’ Ron beamed. ‘Everyone wins! We sell the cuffs to Malfoy’s company, and make a bigger profit than we expected. The Ministry gets high quality Weasley Portcuffs at a knock down price. Even Draco wins.’

‘How, exactly, does Draco win?’ Hermione asked.

‘He gets to be an official Ministry contractor again! It’s what he wanted, isn’t it?’ Ron grinned. ‘And we get an extra two hundred galleons profit from Malfoy. It’s the best birthday present I’ve ever had.’

Beaming, Ron finally fell silent. Hermione decided that it was time to change the subject. She reached into her drawer, placed something on her desk, and looked at her husband.

‘What’s that?’ asked Ron. His crowing was halted and he stared at the slim test tube. His face first confused, then curious. Finally realisation struck.

‘Is … are … us?’ he babbled, unable to speak for his excitement.

‘It’s a home pregnancy test kit, Ron. I’m only a day late, but I’m pretty regular and…’

‘It’s blue! We’re having a boy!’ He kissed her.

‘Blue means pregnant, Ron,’ she said, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘It doesn’t tell you what the sex is. And it’s only a kit; it isn’t one hundred percent reliable. We need to go to St Mungo’s to arrange a proper test.’

‘Let’s go!’

He kissed her again.

‘Sod Malfoy! Who cares about a couple of hundred Galleons? _This_ could be my best birthday present ever!’


	2. Conversations

**Conversations**

‘You skiving git!’ George yelled when Ron finally strolled back into the office they shared. ‘“I’m just going to tell Hermione about the Portcuff contract,” you said. “I won’t be long,” you said. That was three bloody hours ago!’ To emphasise the fact, he pointed at the clock on the wall.

George’s attempt to bait his brother into an angry response failed. The grin on Ron’s face was more powerful than a protection spell and George’s attempt to provoke him simply bounced off. Undeterred, he tried again.

‘You’re supposed to be my business partner. You should be setting an example to our staff. You should be professional, mature!’ George raged. ‘We’ve just had a surprise inspection by the Ministry, and you weren’t here! The Sentient Entity Rights Division wanted to make sure that our house-elves were happy. Where the hell have you been?’

Ron simply shrugged his shoulders and beamed happily.

‘You were with your missus, the woman who wrote the laws which _inflict_ surprise inspections on hard-working business-people like us. What the hell have you and Hermione been doing for three hours?’ George demanded. ‘That’s what I want to know!’

The grin on Ron’s face got even wider, and the gleam in his eyes got wilder. Upon seeing his brother’s face, George had second thoughts.

‘Wait, I’ve changed my mind, I do _not_ want to know what you and Hermione have been doing for three hours! Don’t tell me,’ George ordered.

Ron ignored him. ‘We’ve been to St Mungo’s, George,’ he explained. ‘I’m taking the rest of the day off.’

‘St Mungo’s? Bloody hell! What’s wrong? Are you ill? Is Hermione ill? If you’ve been to hospital why are you grinning like…’ George’s brain finally managed to interrupt his babbling as it came up with an explanation for his brother’s gormless grin, one which fitted all of the facts he now knew. ‘An expectant father?’ he asked quietly.

‘We’re pregnant,’ Ron confirmed both George’s guess and his oft-stated opinion that his brother was both sentimental and stupid.

‘Both of you?’ said George sarcastically. ‘Are you telling me that you’re pregnant with Hermione’s baby, Ron?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, George,’ said Ron. ‘That’s obviously a biological impossibility!’

‘Biological impossibility? Merlin! Marriage has done you no good at all, Ron. You’re even starting to talk like her!’

George pushed back his chair, stood and strode around his desk. He looked up at his younger, taller and thinner brother, threw his arms around him, and pulled him into a bear hug. When George finally let go of him, Ron was gasping for air.

‘However, astonishingly, it appears that you’re not completely useless,’ said George, chuckling as Ron noisily refilled his lungs. ‘Congratulations, Ron. It’s about bloody time; you’re last again, unless, of course, Mum can somehow get Charlie to reproduce. Of course, she’ll have to find a girl for him first. Are you going off to tell Mum and Dad?’

‘We’re going to tell Hermione’s parents first, and then we’re going to The Burrow,’ said Ron. ‘Hermione wants her folks to know first. After all, this will be John and Jean’s first grandchild, so it seems fair that they’re the first to know.’

George looked worriedly up at Ron, and Ron instantly read his meaning.

‘D’you think Mum will be annoyed? I mean it’s just … well … Mum and Dad already have six grandkids. And because Audrey’s well into her second trimester it will be seven by the time little Valentine arrives. We thought…’

‘Well into her second trimester.’ George interrupted. He tried to pitch his voice as high as Hermione’s, but failed. ‘Your wife really is a bad influence on you, Ron. I’ll tell you what Audrey is! She’s in the pudding club again, she’s up the duff, or, as Mum would say, she’s got a bun in the oven, and so has your missus! Trimester!’ George shook his head in contemptuous disbelief and then raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘And “little Valentine,” are you serious? Do you know that it’s a boy already? Valentine? Valentine Granger-Weasley! Hermione will never let you get away with that name,’ he added, shaking his head incredulously.

‘If she’s a girl, she’ll be Rose,’ said Ron. ‘But Hermione doesn’t want to know which we’ve got.’

George strode across to the ornate drinks cabinet behind their highly polished oak meeting table. Grabbing the cut glass decanter of Firewhisky and two matching tumblers, he placed the tumblers on the table and poured out a generous measure for himself and his brother.

‘Well, congratulations, Ron.’ George handed him the tumbler and raised his own. ‘To Valentine Rose Granger-Weasley.’ He tapped his glass against his brother’s. ‘May he, she … or it … be as clever as your wife, as sneaky as you, and as red-haired as us.’

‘Thanks, George. Here’s to baby Granger-Weasley,’ said Ron, smiling as he, too, raised his glass.

‘You do realise that babies do nothing except eat, puke, cry, and fill their nappies, don’t you?’ asked George. His eyes gleamed. ‘In fact, you’ll need lots of practice wiping dirty bums and changing stinky nappies. I’ll let you borrow Fred for a few weeks if you like.’

‘I’m sure Angelina would have something to say about that,’ said Ron.

‘Yeah, “Tell Ron he can keep the smelly little sod,” probably,’ said George, grinning. ‘Remember last May, when I was turning up for work after only two hours sleep? Remember how unsympathetic you were? I hope you suffer, Ron! I will really enjoy watching you suffer the way I did.’

* * *

‘You didn’t have any problem getting away from work early, then?’ Ron asked. He had Apparated into the narrow alley they always used when travelling to Winchester, and had been surprised to discover that Hermione was already there.

‘I didn’t have anything important to do today, so I had my PA rearrange my meetings,’ said Hermione. She wrinkled her nose, and stared accusingly up at her husband. ‘You told him, didn’t you?’

‘I…’ Ron considered lying to his wife, but realised that it would be both futile and foolish. Instead, he nodded and decided that it would be sensible to find out how he’d given himself away.

‘How did you know?’ he asked.

‘I can smell Firewhisky on your breath, Ron,’ Hermione told him. ‘You went to your office to let George know that you were taking the rest of the day off. And you weren’t supposed to say anything else. Because the moment one Weasley knows something important, the Weasley Wireless Network begins to broadcast, and they all know within hours.’

‘I couldn’t help it. George guessed,’ said Ron wrinkling his forehead and pursing his lips in an attempt to appear contrite. ‘But he promised that he wouldn’t tell anyone.’

Hermione frowned, and shook her head. ‘He’s a Weasley, Ron. “I won’t tell anyone” doesn’t mean what it means for most people.’ Her face creased into a huge smile as she continued. ‘It’s a bit like when Dumbledore used to tell Harry not to tell anyone; there are certain people who don’t count. In George’s case, he is probably telling Angelina right now. He’ll tell her not to tell anyone else, but Angelina and Fleur are spending a lot of time together, because Fred is only two months older than Louis. Angelina will tell Fleur and she’ll tell _her_ not to tell anyone, and Fleur will tell Bill, because he’s her husband, and Bill will tell Charlie, because he always tells Charlie everything. Your mum will know within the hour, Ron.’

‘Sorry,’ said Ron as they stepped out from the alley and onto Jewry Street.

‘It’s okay, Ron,’ she said as they strolled up the quiet Winchester street. She smiled up at her husband and hugged him. ‘It’s less than an hour since we got the confirmation, and you’ve still got that silly grin on your face. George isn’t stupid. It’s not an easy thing to keep secret, is it? I think Mum will guess too, the moment we see her.’ She stopped, and turned to face him. As he looked down into her deep brown eyes, Ron saw the anxiety and worry welling up inside her. Her face had fallen into her “pre-exam” look. It was a look which, since their school days, Ron had seen only rarely, usually on the days before a job interview. It was a look he associated with swotting and nerves, and the need for reassurance.

‘We’re having a baby, Ron,’ she said. ‘We’ve talked about it for so long, and we’ve tried for so long, since before Dominique was born.’

‘And now, it’s happening,’ Ron said. ‘It’s perfectly natural, Hermione. Mum and Dad did it half-a-dozen times. It’s nothing to worry about.’ He stepped in front of her, placed his hand under her chin and gently lifted her face skyward, leaning forward to kiss her.

‘Are we ready for this, Ron? It’s your birthday! We’re only twenty-five. What about my career? What about your career? How will we manage?’ she asked.

‘Mum and Dad managed to raise seven kids on Dad’s salary, Hermione,’ Ron reassured her. ‘We’re well off, in fact, we’re very well off compared to Mum and Dad. But even if we weren’t we’d manage. People do.’

Hermione threw her arms around his waist and hugged him, resting her cheek on his chest. ‘People do, don’t they?’ she agreed. ‘Let’s go.’

They walked along to the end of Jewry Street, turned right onto North Walls, and strolled the last few yards to the yellow brick Georgian terrace which was their destination. Ron was reading the brightly polished brass plaque affixed to the one side of the porch wall “North Walls Dental Practice, Jean E Granger BDS (Bris), John H Granger BDS (Bris), Stephen A Jubb BDS (N’cle)”, while Hermione pressed the intercom button opposite.

‘North Walls Dental Practice,’ a female voice said brightly.

‘Hermione Weasley,’ she told the metal grill. ‘I’m here to see Mr and Mrs Granger.’

There was a moment’s silence. ‘Do you have an appointment with one or other of them?’ the voice asked. ‘I’m afraid that you’re not…’

‘No, I don’t have an appointment,’ said Hermione. ‘I’m their daughter. And you are obviously new.’

‘I’m not supposed to…’ the girl began nervously.

Ron pulled his wand from his jacket and waved it at the door. ‘Oh, look, Hermione,’ he said loudly. ‘Whoever was last to leave the dentists obviously didn’t close the door properly.’

Hermione gave him an exasperated look, but pushed the door open and led the way along the pale grey corridor to the door at the end, which a large sign announced to be “Reception”.

The receptionist, a young girl barely out of her teens, looked up worriedly when they entered.

‘Mr and Mrs Granger are both with patients,’ the girl began. She got no further, because at that moment the door leading through to the treatment rooms opened and John Granger walked in.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Cooper,’ he was saying. ‘But the NHS would not have paid for white fillings in this case; amalgam is a cheaper and more durable option. If you want the amalgam in your molar removed and replaced, then it is cosmetic dentistry, and you’ll need to pay.’

‘But…’

‘If you want to discuss costs, please speak to Helen,’ said John Granger firmly. He steered the woman to the receptionist.

‘Mr Granger,’ the receptionist began, looking worriedly toward Ron and Hermione.

‘My daughter and her husband are here, I’ve noticed, thank you, Jessica.’ John Granger pushed his hand through his thinning, curly brown hair and gave them a slightly worried smile. ‘Hello, darling, hello, Ron. What brings you here? You don’t often visit us at work, and never without ringing first.’

‘Where’s Mum?’ squeaked Hermione urgently, her voice catching in her throat.

‘She’s with a patient, I assume,’ said John Granger, he looked worriedly at his daughter. ‘What on earth is the matter, Hermione?’

Hermione burst into tears and ran into his arms.

‘What in the world…’ he began, holding her tightly. He looked anxiously at Ron.

‘How does the title “Granddad Granger” sound?’ Ron asked. ‘Or would you prefer Grandpa?’

John Granger’s face went blank. He was normally a quick-witted man, but he seemed to be struggling to process Ron’s words. His eyebrows scuttled to meet each other above his nose, and then shot up his forehead as realisation struck. He stared at Ron then down at his sobbing daughter, and then back at Ron.

‘Yes … baby…’ Hermione sobbed into her father’s chest.

‘Granddad,’ he said thoughtfully, and lapsed into silence. He continued to hug his daughter with one arm, but lifted the other to once again run it through his hair. The brushing motion started lower than it usually did, Ron noticed, and the ball of John Granger’s thumb swept past the outside of his eye. If there had been the suggestion of moisture there before, it had gone when he lowered his hand.

‘We need to tell your mother,’ John Granger said.

‘Tell her what,’ Jean Granger asked from the doorway.

‘Hello, Grandma, perfect timing,’ her husband told her.

Jean Granger squealed, and burst into tears.


	3. Concerns

**Concerns**

As Ron reluctantly dragged himself towards wakefulness, he heard an odd, wet-sounding cough. The strange hacking gargle was remote, and slightly muffled. Although he was still sleep-befuddled and far from alert Ron listened carefully.

Within seconds, he was wide-awake, his heart dancing to an anxious beat. It wasn’t a repeat of the half-heard noise which brought him to full wakefulness; it was the lack of any noise at all. The silence meant that there was no one next to him. The peculiar, but wonderfully reassuring, “pfhhh” noise Hermione made when sleeping was absent.

Concerned, Ron rolled onto his side for final confirmation. Opening one eye, he glanced across the bed. He was right of course; there was no sleep-tousled mop of brown hair next to him. The crisp white pillow adjacent to him was indented with her imprint, but empty. He was alone. Wondering how long she’d been gone, he stretched his hand onto his wife’s side of the bed; it was cold.

Another unpleasant gurgling noise drifted into the bedroom, and Ron realised that it came from the bathroom. The initial noise was followed by a diarrhoeal series of splashes, and a gasp. Sliding quickly out of bed, and hitching up his pyjama trousers, Ron padded rapidly out into the corridor and cautiously approached the not-quite-closed bathroom door. Peering through the crack, he saw the soles of her feet; she was kneeling down in front of the loo. As he stood uncertainly outside the door, wondering whether he dared enter, he heard her cough.

‘How are you feeling, Hermione?’ he called.

‘I’ve got my head down the toilet, you bloody idiot,’ said Hermione weakly as she gasped for breath. ‘Take a guess!’

On hearing her heave, retch, and spit, Ron cautiously pushed open the door and looked inside. His wife was crouched on the floor, her head over the bowl. One hand was on the floor, supporting her; the other was flailing upwards in the direction of the box of tissues on top of the cistern.

Hermione’s pink camisole top was tight across her back, clearly showing the curve of her spine as she crouched uncomfortably on the floor, and her pale blue pyjama trousers had slipped down, revealing a distracting amount of bum-cleavage. Ron closed his eyes for a moment, forcing his mind away from urges which he knew were wholly inappropriate under the circumstances. Padding to her side, he picked up the tissue box, and held it under her flailing hand.

Hermione grabbed a tissue, turned her head away from him, and began wiping her face. Ron crouched down alongside her and gently ran his hand down her back in an attempt to comfort her.

‘Feeling better?’ he asked.

‘No,’ she snapped, shrugging and shaking her torso in an unmistakeable gesture. Ron removed his hand from her back, stood, and stepped away.

‘Morning sickness,’ he observed quietly.

‘Gosh, Ron, you are _so_ clever! I didn’t realise I’d married such a _genius_ ,’ she said sarcastically. ‘I’m pregnant, it’s morning, and I’m being sick. How on _earth_ did you manage to work that out?’

‘I didn’t _know_ ,’ he protested. ‘I was worried when I woke up and you weren’t in bed…’ he said.

He bent forwards, trying to look at her face, but she turned away from him. She was definitely in a bad mood with him; he recognised the signs. But this wasn’t his fault. Except in one way, of course.

‘Harry told me that Ginny didn’t really suffer from morning sickness.’ Despite his brain’s desperate attempts to stop it, Ron’s mouth began to pour forth words which would further annoy her.

Hermione spat into the toilet bowl, wiped her mouth again, and lifted her head.

‘Well that’s just great, for Ginny,’ snapped Hermione. Glancing up at him with angry dark-ringed eyes, she snatched another tissue from the box he still held.

‘Didn’t you sleep well?’ he asked.

‘No, but you did,’ she told him viciously. ‘You grunted like a pig all night.’

‘You should have woken me,’ Ron protested.

‘I tried,’ she said angrily. ‘I kicked you so hard that I hurt my toes. But you just rolled over and kept on snoring. It’s your fault that I’m tired and feeling dreadful.’ She gave a final belch, shuddered, and mopped her forehead with yet another tissue.

Ron looked worriedly down at her. ‘Perhaps we should go and see a Healer,’ he suggested.

Breathing heavily, Hermione laboriously struggled to her feet; Ron reached out and helped her up. She took the hand he offered her, but the moment she was upright she shook herself free from him. Looking a little unsteady, she leaned forwards, flushed the toilet, and again turned her back on him.

‘I’m not ill, Ron,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m pregnant. I don’t need a Healer. This is simply my body making a few adjustments. It’s only my hormones, they’re trying to cope. I need to clean my teeth, get showered and get into the office. I have an important meeting today and I need to prepare for it.’

She was speaking forcefully, but she spoke to the wall, not to his face.

‘You don’t have to go to work, not if you don’t feel well enough,’ said Ron.

‘I do, Ron. You know I do. I can’t possibly miss today’s Wizengamot meeting,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m fine! I’ve been sick, that’s all. It’s nothing serious, honest.’

‘Then why won’t you look at me?’ he asked. ‘You’ve just told me that you haven’t slept well, you should…’

‘I’ve been sick, Ron,’ she snapped. ‘I feel dreadful, I look dreadful, and my breath stinks.’

‘I don’t care,’ he told her, gently putting his hands on her hips. ‘You always look good to me.’ He glanced down and hitched up her pyjama trousers for her. Before she could shake herself free of him he squeezed her bum and kissed the back of her head. Sliding his arms around her waist, he slowly slid them upwards.

‘Ow! That hurts, Ron,’ she snapped. ‘For Merlin’s sake, just get out and leave me alone.’ Her body was rigid and her fists clenched. ‘Let me get tidied up in peace and don’t fuss.’

‘Okay,’ said Ron, releasing her and sighing. ‘I’m only trying to help, Hermione.’

‘Well you aren’t helping. You’re simply being an idiot, as usual!’ she told him.

Ron gritted his teeth; he knew that there was no point in continuing, not unless he wanted to start a real argument. ‘Sorry, Hermione,’ he said.

He left, quietly closing the bathroom door behind him. ‘Bloody hormones,’ he muttered as he slouched despondently back to their bedroom to get dressed.

* * *

After carefully draping the fluffy blue towel around her shoulders, Hermione examined herself in the mirror. There were bags under her eyes, and her lips were dry, cracked and very pale. She looked dreadful. She felt dreadful, too. Her breasts ached. It wasn’t simply Ron’s clumsiness, they were swollen, hard, and sore to the touch. Worse than that, her stomach continually roiled and churned like a stormy sea. She successfully fought down the rising bile, but she could still taste it. She cleaned her teeth for a second time, cursing the fact that even the toothpaste tasted unpleasant.

‘Great,’ she muttered to herself.

_Why today, of all days,_ she wondered. She had been suffering for a few days, unable to keep anything down, and it was getting worse. Her meeting was, quite possibly, the most important of her career; she’d simply have to find a way to cope. She needed to be ready. Make-up would hide most of the visible signs; as for the nausea, she would simply have to manage it somehow.

She opened the bathroom door and stepped out from the soft scents of soap and shampoo into a pungent and powerful pong. The smell hit her like a sledgehammer. Her stomach lurched as the odours assaulted her, and she again fought down the urge to retch.

‘I’m making breakfast,’ Ron called from the kitchen.

‘Merlin, Ron! Are you deliberately trying to make me sick again?’ Hermione shouted back. ‘Just the smell is making me want to puke.’

‘You have to eat something, Hermione,’ he said, peering out from the kitchen. ‘You hardly ate anything last night. I’ve taken the fat off the bacon, and the egg yolks are runny, just how you like them.’

‘I … don’t … want … anything … to … eat … Ron,’ she told him, emphasising every word as she scampered down the corridor to the refuge of the bedroom. ‘Just leave me alone!’

Closing the door to keep out the smell of Ron’s cooking, she sat at her dressing table and read “What to Expect During Pregnancy” while waiting for her stormy stomach to settle. After a few minutes she felt a little better, so she folded the page corner to keep her place and began to prepare for her day. She covered the bags under her eyes, and applied some colour to her pale lips, using a lot more make-up than usual. Her hand reached for the perfume bottle, it was her favourite, and very expensive; Ron had bought it for her at Christmas. However, as she looked at the bottle, even the thought of that smell made her feel ill.

Turning away from the dressing table, she turned her attention to her clothing. After fastening up the sober dark blue pinstripe business suit she’d selected for the occasion, she examined herself in the mirror; she would do. Readying herself for the smell, she opened the door.

To her surprise, the smell was gone; Ron had somehow removed it. Her husband was surprisingly good at household spells; Molly had always expected all of her children to help around the house.

‘I’m going straight to the office. Bye, Ron,’ she called as she walked past the kitchen. She ignored his pleas that she at least try to eat something. When he dashed into the lounge after her, carrying a plate of dry toast and a glass of water, she picked up a slice of toast in order to placate him and promised that she’d drink something when she got to her office. Avoiding his puckered lips, she waved him away without a kiss, picked up a handful of Floo powder, and stepped into the fireplace.

‘Ministry of Magic,’ she said.

Ron’s parting words, ‘Please eat, and drink something, Herm…’ were lost to her as she vanished into the green flames.

* * *

‘So it’s agreed, then,’ said George. We’ll sell the business, give all the money to charity, move to Outer Mongolia and live as hermits for the rest of our lives.’

‘Fine,’ said Ron distractedly. His head was buried in the book he’d brought in to the office. He didn’t even lift his head.

George looked at his downbeat and distracted brother, He decided that a demonstration of his latest invention was in order. It was something which he’d intended to ask Ron about. Instead, he simply threw it him. The bright red ball hit Ron on the forehead, bounced off, did a graceful arc, and began bouncing up and down on the top of Ron’s head.

‘Damn it, George,’ said Ron, looking up in annoyance as the ball avoided his swatting hands and continued to bounce up and down, doing an arcing dance on his skull. ‘Why did you do that?’

‘You weren’t listening to me! What the hell is wrong, Ron?’ George asked. ‘You might as well not be here, for all the use you are.’

‘I’m worried about Hermione,’ Ron admitted.

‘It’s only morning sickness,’ said George. ‘You told me that when you got here. Is she throwing things at you? Is she swearing a lot? Is she threatening to feed you with Puking Pastilles so you can suffer like she is?’

‘No, because she’s not Angelina,’ Ron told his brother, still trying to catch the ball.

‘What does the book say?’ George asked.

Ron gave up in his attempts to catch the red ball as it bounced on his skull, and stared worriedly into the face of his brother and business partner. ‘She always folds the corner of the page, you know. Especially when there's something important, something wants to be able to find again. She’s been reading up on…’ he hesitated. ‘Miscarriage.’

‘Bugger off, now!’ said George. He waved his wand, and the ball returned to his hand.

‘What?’

‘Bugger off, get lost, leave. Go!’ ordered George. ‘You know why you’re worried, you idiot! So do I. Sort it out. Take as long as you need. Anyway, when you’re like this you’re about as much use as an ashtray on a broom. Don’t come back until you’ve sorted this out. Sod the Wizengamot, just go! But, before you do, what do you think of the ball?’

‘It’s like you, bloody annoying. What’s the profit margin?’ asked Ron as he pulled on his coat.

‘If we sell them for ten sickles we’ll make six profit.’

‘Excellent, got a name for it?’

‘Not yet.’

‘It’s a Bonce-bounce-ball,’ said Ron.

‘Of course it is,’ George grinned. ‘Now get lost!’

* * *

‘Ron Weasley,’ said Ron as he walked through the Ministry security arches he’d helped to design. The security witch on the other side checked her display, making certain that he was who he claimed to be. She beckoned him forwards and pointed him towards the reception desk. Nodding politely at her, he strode across the Atrium.

‘Welcome to the Ministry of Magic, sir. How may we help you?’ The young wizard at the desk was barely out of his teens and his remarkable, purple-tinged black hair was parted at the side. It was so long that it obscured one eye, and hung lankly across his cheek.

‘I’m here to see Harry,’ Ron told him. ‘I’ll need a visitor pass, please.’

‘Harry…’ The young man looked up curiously. The false smile on his face was replaced by confusion. Ron watched as the young man tried to figure out who Harry was. Finally, realisation struck. ‘Do you mean Deputy Head Auror Potter, sir?’ he asked hesitantly.

‘Harry,’ Ron confirmed, nodding his head. So much for fame, he thought ruefully. It was seven years after The Battle, and this kid with the silly hairstyle didn’t have any idea who he was. It had been different when he’d been working alongside Harry in the Auror Office.

‘Do you have an appoint…’ the receptionist began.

‘Look, just give me a visitor’s pass, please,’ Ron interrupted angrily. I know where I’m going. I used to work in the Auror Office. I’m…’

‘Ron Weasley, Order of Merlin, First Class,’ a friendly voice called from behind him. ‘His wife works in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, too. Give him a badge, Leo. I’ll take him up to the Auror Office.’

‘Yes, Healer Rathod.’ The young man nodded nervously, causing his hair to fall forwards and cover both eyes.

‘Thanks, Parvati,’ said Ron, tapping his foot impatiently as the youth waved his wand over the card.

‘Why do you want to see Harry?’ Parvati Rathod asked.

‘I don’t, not really,’ he admitted, snatching the visitor’s badge from the young man’s hands and turning to greet his former classmate. ‘I need to see Hermione, but she’s in a meeting with the Minister, and…’

‘And if you’d told Reception “I want to barge into the Minister’s Office to find my wife,” you’d never get anywhere,’ said Parvati wisely. The floppy-haired boy behind Ron whimpered worriedly. Ron ignored him.

Ron nodded, and took a good look at Parvati. She was in uniform. The long, bright green, almost cloak-like trench coat she was wearing signified that she was not merely a Healer, but a Healer attached to the Auror Office. Having a duty Healer on standby was one of the many innovations Harry had introduced, but Ron was surprised that Parvati was still working.

He hadn’t seen her since Harry and Ginny’s New Year Party, and her belly had ballooned since then. He stared at the bulge protruding from her open coat, and wondered if Hermione would get so big.

‘Bloody hell, you’re enormous, Parvati,’ he told her. ‘You look ready to pop.’

‘Thanks, Ron,’ she said sarcastically. ‘I’ll probably get bigger. I’ve still got more than a month to go.’

‘You’re looking good despite your size,’ he said, trying to retrieve the situation.

‘I know what you meant, Ron,’ she told him as they strolled towards the lifts. ‘But really, if you don’t want Hermione to hex you, you need to be careful what you say, and how you say it. Particularly when she’s as big as I am.’

‘When … or if…’ muttered Ron worriedly.

Parvati grabbed his arm and pulled him to a halt. ‘Tell me,’ she said. He hesitated. ‘Now,’ she ordered. He did as he was told.

* * *

‘It might be nothing, Ron. She reads about everything. Perhaps that’s simply the page she finished on,’ said Parvati gently as they walked from the lift and strode along towards the Minister’s Office. ‘From the symptoms you describe, it certainly sounds like morning sickness.’

‘That can be serious, too,’ said Ron. ‘I read that, too. It was on the next page, right after the section on…’

He couldn’t say the word miscarriage, Parvati realised. Ron was white-faced and shaking. His anxiety had been obvious the moment she’d seen him. He was deathly pale. His freckles were more obvious than ever, they where islands of orange on a sea of milk. Ron had convinced himself that something was seriously wrong. Parvati took a deep breath and calmed herself down. Ron’s anxiety was palpable, and highly contagious. But, Hermione was a genius; she wouldn’t ignore her own symptoms, would she?

‘It will be okay, Ron,’ she said, trying to reassure both herself and him. When they reached the door to the outer office of the Minister’s chambers, Ron stepped forwards and pulled it open for her. ‘Morning, Brenda,’ she greeted the Minister’s secretary cheerfully. ‘Is Mrs Weasley in with the Minister? I’ve brought…’ She got no further, the door to the Minister’s office burst open.

‘Brenda, Hermione’s collapsed, we need a…’ He stopped and stared at Ron and Parvati. ‘A Healer, and Ron,’ he said, astonished.

Ron gave an anguished howl and dashed to his wife’s side.

* * *

When Hermione opened her eyes, Ron was sitting at her side. Her head felt as though it was stuffed with cotton wool. She tried to sit, but she was too weak to move.

‘Ministry,’ she whispered hoarsely.

‘Don’t worry,’ he told her. ‘The Wizengamot approved the formation of your Authority for the Rights of Sentient Entities. Although Harry and I changed that part of your report. It’s going to be called the Sentient Entities Rights Authority instead. You were always rubbish at acronyms, Hermione. I mean, A.R.S.E.? What were you thinking? S.E.R.A. is much better.’

‘Who?’ Hermione began. Her throat felt strangely numb, and talking was an effort, but Ron knew what she was asking.

‘Harry gave your speech, not me,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t going to leave you, was I? You’re in St Mungo’s.’

‘How long?’ barely able to speak, Hermione’s two-word question was as much as she could manage.

‘You fainted about hours ago, you’ve been here for three.’

You?’ Certain that her husband would understand the question, she let the one word do.

‘I’ve been with you since the moment you collapsed.’

‘What?’

‘You fainted, that’s all. It’s nothing serious. Severe morning sickness led to dehydration. I told…’ he stopped, and she knew he’d decided against saying “I told you to drink something.” Instead, he patted her arm. ‘It’s a good thing Parvati and me were there. Parvati got some fluids into you and got you straight here. The Healers are going to keep you in overnight, just to make sure. And I’m staying here, too.’

‘Why?’

‘Why did I go to the Ministry?’

She nodded.

‘I picked up your pregnancy book from the dressing table. I was wondering what you were reading about. You’d folded the page. I panicked.’

‘Why?’ she asked again.

There were tears in his eyes. As usual, he tried to hide his fear behind a joke. ‘I blame the alphabet. The section just before Morning Sickness was all about Miscarriage. I… Bloody hell, Hermione… Mother and baby are fine… The Healers have checked you both out,’ he reassured her, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. ‘It was just me simply being an idiot, as usual.’

‘But you’re _my_ idiot,’ she reassured him, squeezing his hand. His tears, she knew, were tears of relief.


End file.
